Fit playmates of the bird and bee.
For you grow soft the springtime hours;
For you the shade lies neath the tree.
For you life smiles the whole day long;
For you she breathes each breath in bliss,
And turns all sound into song;
And you, and you have come to this!

Is't not enough that man should toil
To fill the hands that clutch for gold?
Is't not enough that women toil.
And in life's summertime grow old?
Is't not enough that death should pale
To see men welcome him as rest;
But must the children drudge and fall,
And perish on the mothers breast?

See, lovers, wed at tender eve;
See, mothers, with your new-born young;
See, fathers--if you can, believe;
From infant blood, lo, wealth is wrung!
See homes; see towns; see cities; states;
Earth, show it to the skies above!
Lovers who pass through rapture's gates,
Are these, are these your fruits of love?

O man who boast your lands subdued,
Your conquered air, your oceans tamed,
Who mold all nature to your mood,
Look on these babes and be ashamed!